


Don't Make Me Compete

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: John was awfully obsessed with Sherlock. Who was this bloke, anyways?





	Don't Make Me Compete

John was lovely. He really was. He kissed her hand and held doors open and pulled out chairs for her. He gave her chocolate covered strawberries and homemade biscuits and a hand-written card for her birthday, days after they'd met.

John was funny, sweet, and, all in all, a rather brilliant boyfriend.

So why wouldn’t he let her into his house?

He wasn’t a serial killer. Probably. If he were a serial killer, he’d have to be a very _good_ serial killer in order to hide it. But then again, a very good serial killer was the only type of serial killer to really have any concern over.

“Are you a serial killer?” Madeline asked.

John stopped chewing.

“What— _no._ God, no. Why would you…”

“You never invite me over.”

“And that makes me a serial killer.”

Madeline persisted. “What’s wrong with your place? If it’s not the prettiest thing in the world—well, I don’t mind.”

“No, it’s not that.” John scraped his fork against the plate in a way that drove Madeline absolutely insane (but she kept quiet out of politeness and tried to tune it out). “It’s rather nice, actually. A bit cluttered, but cozy.”

“So what’s the problem?”

John winced. “It’s… I’ve got a flatmate.”

Madeline raised her eyebrows. “Is _he_ a serial killer? Or she?”

John laughed. “He. And, no, not that I know of.”

“Oh.” Madeline was relieved. “So what’s his problem, then?”

“He’s… eccentric.”

Madeline gave him a look. “Eccentric.”

John’s face was perpetually stuck on a wince. “It’s—” He sighed. “You know what? You’re right. It’s probably better if I just showed you.” He waved someone over for the bill.

Now, Madeline was intrigued. “He’s not—well. Mad, right?”

John sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Depends on how you define that word.”

“Is he… smart?” God, this was awkward.

John laughed. “Smartest goddamn person you’ll ever meet.”

Madeline opened her mouth, a dozen questions scrambling for the exit and all getting stuck on the way out.

John noticed. “I can’t explain it,” he said with some sort of resignation. “Just… come over to my place tonight?”

“Sounds good to me.” Madeline grinned, her goal accomplished, and went for a tease. “Now that I know you’re not a serial killer who keeps body parts in your kitchen.”

John coughed. He put a hand to his mouth, drew in a breath, and then suddenly began laughing uncontrollably.

Madeline thought that maybe John had had too much wine. And then she realised that they had only drunk water. And then she wondered if she had missed something somewhere throughout the conversation. "What?"

-+-+-+-

John was awfully obsessed with Sherlock. He had rattled on and on for the entirety of the ride (nearly ten minutes), talking faster and faster, hopping from story to story until she was hopelessly lost (she had managed to grab onto a frayed strand of a tangent near the start but lost grip of it very quickly afterwards), breaking off mid-rant to giggle or sigh or shake his head. After hearing a rambling, half-baked story about bees and poison or something or the other, she had given up and opted for staring out the window. John didn’t seem to notice or mind.

Who was this Sherlock bloke? He seemed—for lack of a better word, from what she’s just heard (which must be an exaggeration)—rather. Well. Insane.

She supposed she would find out soon enough.

John paid the cabbie and they stepped out into the muggy March evening.

“221B Baker Street,” Madeline recited. “There's a nice ring to it.” She stepped up to the knocker, frowned, and reached out a hand to straighten it.

John made a small sound behind her, and then seemed to decide against speaking. He took out the key and unlocked the door.

“After you,” he said, and Madeline walked into the flat.

“Central London—must cost a fortune,” she commented, turning to see John placing the knocker back into its askew position.

She frowned again. “Why are you doing that?”

John shut the door. “Sherlock’s brother has OCD and fixes it every time he visits.”

Madeline’s frown deepened. She started walking up the stairs. “O—kay.”

John tried again. “Mycroft—Sherlock’s brother—he’s actually a—um, the—British government—he says he’s got a minor position, but that’s just bollocks—anyways—and Sherlock hates him. A lot. Actually, the first time we met, Mycroft drove me up in a shady black car to give me a speech in an abandoned building. And I thought he was Moriarty. Oh, and Moriarty’s…” John trailed off, looking as confused as Madeline was feeling.

“I’m not good at this explaining thing, am I?” John said.

“Well,” Madeline said, “it does seem like a lot." She paused. "You’ve had an interesting life, haven’t you?”

John laughed. “That’s an understatement.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and John opened the door.

“I’m home!” John called out.

Madeline waited.

“Looks like he’s gone out,” she said after a while.

“No.” John sighed. “He just doesn’t like to respond. Doesn’t really like me announcing I’m home, either—says it distracts him and he already knows I’m home.”

“O—kay,” Madeline said. “Right.”

John glanced at her. “He’s probably in the kitchen. You can have a look around first."

Madeline nodded as she scanned the flat. John was right—it was cozy. Cluttered, yes. But cozy. There were papers haphazardly scattered across a table, an open (but dark-screened) laptop resting on an armchair on the other side of the room.

Her gaze drifted to the wall and she walked over, running her fingers across the yellow spray paint. She prodded at what looked exceeding similar to a bullet hole.

"Sherlock," John explained. "He was bored."

"Bored," Madeline repeated, and laughed. "Well, I'm certainly eager to meet him. Kitchen, you said?"

“One second,” John said, touching her arm. He lowered his voice.

Madeline blinked. “What?”

“There’s a reason I didn’t ask you to come over before,” John said, carefully and deliberately, like it was something important.

“Yeah. Yeah, I got it. Consulting detective, insanely smart mad genius.” Madeline grinned.

John swallowed. “Yeah, well. He’s… He’s not the best with people. Quite. He’s very _honest.”_ By the way he said it, that was most definitely a euphemism.

“John.” Madeline rolled her eyes. “Just let me meet him?”

John paused. “Alright,” he said, and took her hand, leading her into the other room.

Madeline's eyebrows shot up. Maybe she didn't see much of other people's homes, but she certainly knew you weren't supposed to have what looked like professional lab equipment in the middle of a so-called kitchen. And they weren't just display, either—the microscope light was still on, the chair untucked; there were dials filled with liquid and a notebook on the side, opened to a half-filled page of scrawled writing.

Didn't John say something about body parts?

She turned to John, fully prepared to ask, until her eyes landed on a figure at the side of the room.

The man was sitting on a chair with his eyes closed, his hands pressed together, fingertips touching his chin. He had dark curly hair that looked unruly, but also like it was done on purpose, and—oh god, did he have cheekbones.

John gestured to him half-heartedly. “Sherlock, this is Maddie. Not that you’ll remember, but it’s nice to pretend, hm?”

“Hi,” Madeline said, raising a hand to wave, and then laughing a little. “I was waving. I know you can’t see.”

Sherlock opened his eyes.

Madeline felt her breath stutter, and she looked away, her gaze landing on—was that a skull on top of the microwave? well, bugger it, anything was better than those eyes. Except she could still feel them on her. God, it was like an x-ray. What the hell?

A squeeze of her hand. Madeline looked over to John, who gave her what was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile but looked much more like a grimace instead.

“Madeline,” Sherlock spoke, and the floor seemed to vibrate with how low his voice was.

Madeline squeezed John’s hand, and forced herself to meet those x-ray eyes. “Sherlock,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you. John’s told me so much about you.”

“He did,” Sherlock said. “You weren’t listening.”

Madeline bit her lip and blushed, but John chuckled. “Yeah, I might’ve rambled on a bit." He turned his eyes to Sherlock. "It’s not my fault there's so much to talk about.”

Sherlock smiled, his eyes fixed on John (who didn’t even flinch). “It’s not my fault you’re so easily impressed.”

“It’s not my fault you’re so impressive.”

Madeline waited.

And waited.

She looked at John, who was looking at Sherlock, and then at Sherlock, who was looking at John. She waited some more.

And then, very calmly, she thought, _bugger._

John inhaled sharply. “Um,” he said, tearing his eyes away to look at the skull instead.

 _Bugger_ was right.

Madeline gave Sherlock a tight little smile. “It was nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted from John’s to hers, and Madeline thought about those eyes meeting John’s, the _way_ those eyes met John’s, and suddenly it was very easy to not look away.

“What?” John looked back and forth between Madeline and Sherlock. “But you didn’t even—”

“It’s alright,” Madeline cut in gently. “You said there was a reason you didn’t invite me over. I can see it, now.”

“What?” John sounded incredulous. He turned a glare to Sherlock. “Did you communicate with her telepathically or something?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be stupid, John.”

“Have you two met?” John tried again.

“No,” Madeline said.

“Then what…” John turned to Madeline, his face tight with frustration. “What did I do wrong?”

Madeline looked past him and at Sherlock. She raised an eyebrow. Sherlock raised one back.

“John,” Madeline said gently. “I think I should go.”

“Seventy seconds, John,” Sherlock rumbled.

“Maddie,” John said, his voice almost pleading. “Don’t. Please. I’ll make it up for you.”

“Do you really not—” _see it?_

“I’m sorry,” Madeline said. “I have to go.”

John’s jaw went slack. “Maddie, please—”

Madeline tugged her hand out of John’s and began to head towards the door.

“I’ll call you!” John said in a last-ditch effort.

He didn’t even try to follow her, Madeline thought as she headed out the flat. There was a pang at her heart, but it went away just as quickly. With the way the two of them looked at each other—god.

Out on the streets, Madeline turned and looked up through the window of 221B to see two silhouettes, rippled through the curtains, one tall and slim and the other short, stocky. The latter’s head was in his hands. Madeline could hear it again: _“What did I do wrong?”_

She almost smiled, if she weren’t so frustrated. One, because John really was quite a brilliant boyfriend—kisses and strawberries and biscuits and all—and two, because he didn’t seem to notice that he was already hopelessly in love with his flatmate.

Madeline pulled out her phone and opened it to John's contacts. Her finger hovered over the screen.

Sherlock Holmes was a very lucky man. Madeline did hope he would make John realize it. Well—he _was_ an apparent genius, after all. Eccentric, too. And very _honest._ Something about deductions, too. She hadn't stuck around long enough to find out. 

And what was all that about the body parts? The spray paint and bullet holes? The skull on the microwave? The makeshift chemical lab in the middle of the kitchen?

Madeline did smile, now. Sonder—that was the word. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had stories, that was for sure. Perhaps even more vivid and complex than most.

Maybe, tonight was the night Sherlock would kiss him. Maybe John would go searching for another girlfriend (or boyfriend, she supposed) immediately the next day. Maybe she had read the whole thing wrong, and she had just broken up with the best boyfriend she'd ever had for no logical reason whatsoever.

She pressed  _delete_ and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> You know those things you write that are pretty much just word vomit, but you feel bad if you just leave gathering dust in the bottom of your drive? Um. Yeah.


End file.
